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When I’m walking down the street during a particularly amusing evening, I can’t help but think: Do night owls vomit the skeletons of drug addicts and prostitutes? Do the successful night owls prey on the misfortune of the unfortunate? Only to vomit they’re hard work later in the very same gutt...

The woman my mother calls “mom” lives near the banks of Lake Superior. Although, my mother would always say that she uses the term “mom” loosely; the woman is a shipwreck. An unfortunate occurrence that leaves regret to linger in her deep set wrinkles and escape her rusting mind. The more sh...

Rachel sat on the corner of the bed in the dimly lit room and watched him fall asleep. Intangible chains kept her from getting up, and even in his sleep Rachel could feel his rough voice grind against her ear like gravel to fallen knees. The harder she pulled away the more desperately he grasped her...

I wonder why people don’t write letters more often. I miss letters. I miss the paper, the handwriting, the way I can hold it in my hand and keep it safe. If anyone wrote me a letter, I’d keep every single one.
My mother, she keeps her letters in this faded old puppy dog box with a little gold ...

Your voice is rough against my mind,
Like gravel to fallen knees.
So why do I miss you?
You make me sick, god,
You are so slick.
Still I miss you.
Your words are empty and meaningless,
And I want so badly to care less,
And still I miss you....